The Pedigree Of Honey Does

Will You Tell Me My Fault, Frankly As To Yourself, For I Had Rather Wince, Than Die. Men Do Not Call The Surgeon To Commend The Bone, But To Set It, Sir.

Tis Not That Dieing Hurts Us So- Tis Living- Hurts Us More.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul.

You Cannot Fold A Flood And Put It In A Drawer, Because The Winds Would Find It Out And Tell Your Cedar Floor.

I Do Not Like The Man Who Squanders Life For Fame; Give Me The Man Who Living Makes A Name.